He sits on a bed, in an unfamiliar motel room. His body is riddled with exhaustion. His head throbs as the rain gently pelts the window. He’s been feeling like this, scattered, for a while. His eyes slide closed, like shutters, as he rests his head against the wall. That’s when he hears it. The incessant sound of a typewriter. It’s coming from the room next door. He can feel the vibrations through the thin wall. Smoke seeps through the heating vent beside the bed. It doesn’t trouble him, though. He’s focusing on the typewriter, trying to decipher every word. He can’t. And honestly, he doesn’t want to. He’d rather not, as to not influence what he, himself, writes. The vacancy sign outside his window casts an eerie glow upon his face. The flickering is hypnotic, and the sound of the typewriter has become like a lullaby. Slumped against the wall, his body relaxes as he finally falls asleep.
He’s pulled awake by the sudden silence. He peels his body from the bed, wondering what time it is. Wiping the drool from his chin, he reaches for the clock. 5 A.M.. This reminds him of her tattoo, “The nights are for poets and mad men.” That cursive handwriting of hers, snaking its way up her thigh. As the memory flits through his mind, he hears a smile. He turns to look at the wall. He wonders if it could be her, sitting in the room next to his. He’s never known her to be the girl next door. She holds far more appeal. Sitting on the edge of his bed, running his hands through his hair, he hears a door open. Moments later, a folded newspaper is slid under his door. He saunters over and picks up the paper. Right there, circled in a red marker, is the classified section. But, there is only one entry, “An open letter to a future lover”. He stands there, reading. And while he reads, a light comes on behind him as the ‘No’ is illuminated on the vacancy sign outside.